The Bad Touch
by michael t
Summary: Episode 10 of the Trick Chronicles, in which things begin to fall apart. The Trick Chronicles is an alternate senior year.
1. chapter 1

Suggested listening:  
  
"Blue" by the Jayhawks  
"Welcome to Struggleville" by the Vigilantes of Love  
  
The Bad Touch  
By  
  
Michael Walker  
  
There is a town on the California coast. By the standards of its sprawling neighbor to the south, it is a small town, although in another part of the country it would be considered a large town or even a small city. Perception depends so greatly upon perspective.  
  
The docks are not as busy as they used to be, but the airport is thriving. The community is surrounded by beautiful scenery; mountains are only a short drive away. It has a few rich people, a larger number of poor, and the bulk of the populace falls somewhere between those two poles.  
  
In many ways, it is an altogether unremarkable town, but two features guarantee its uniqueness. First is a remarkably well maintained sewer system containing many more miles of large-gauge pipe than seems necessary for a municipality of this size. Most of the citizens do not realize this.  
  
The second characteristic is also little known and that is a boon to the citizenry, for if they truly understood how special their town was, most of them would never sleep again. Their sleepy little burgh sits atop an entrance to Hell. Welcome to Sunnydale. May all your dreams come true. Your nightmares certainly will.  
  
***  
  
"Rip Torn."  
  
Xander Harris rolled his eyes in disgust. "Will, you always pick Rip Torn."  
  
Willow Rosenberg smiled and wiggled her eyebrows. "Because it's a cool name."  
  
Xander shook his head. "It's not that cool. Besides, what cool it did have has been polished off by your constant usage."  
  
Willow made an exasperated face. "Okay, you big baby. Dash Mihok."  
  
Xander nodded. "Excellent choice. Pervasive yet obscure."  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, could you just get on with it?" Cordelia Chase snapped her compact shut and deposited it in her purse. "This game is strictly for the stupid anyway. Acting like it's some sort of Mensa test just extends the arc of your patheticness."  
  
Willow said. "Your turn."  
  
A small, secretive grin rested lightly upon Xander's face. Willow rolled her eyes. Xander took his time saying the name. "Jensen Daggett."  
  
Willow frowned. "Who?"  
  
Xander's grin became wider. "Jensen Daggett. Played Jonathan Silverman's girlfriend Charlie McCarthy on The Single Guy. Also Scott Bakula's love interest in Major League: Back To The Minors."  
  
"Okay," Willow said, "that is the coolest name in show business. I would like to say that your knowledge of pop culture has passed from thorough through obsessive and into the truly deranged." She stood up.  
  
"Hey hey hey." Xander waved his hands. "You're leaving after only seven rounds? Why?"  
  
"I have something to do," Willow said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"A thing. I have a thing, a thing I have to do." Willow nodded and strolled away. Xander stared after her, his hands at half-mast.  
  
"Wait," he said in a weak voice. "The game's not over."  
  
Cordelia stood up. "I'm afraid it is." She looped her hand around his bicep. "Let's see if we can't think of something to make you feel better. I know. If you have cable, how many times could you watch Matlock in a day?"  
  
Xander looked at her, eyes narrowed. "Are you asking how many time I could watch it, or how many times it's on? 'Cause those are two very different numbers."  
  
***  
  
Buffy Summers frowned, pulling her lower lip out and spoiling her profile as she marched through the door of the Espresso Pump and slouched into a seat at the table.  
  
"Is your neck bothering you?" Willow asked.  
  
"No, the neck is fine, but the next person to make a hickey joke draws back a bloody stump."  
  
"Oh." Willow blinked. "Well, that's good to know." Her fingers plucked at the straps of her backpack lying on the table.  
  
Buffy hunched forward and rested her elbows on the table. "Will, is there something you want to talk to me about?"  
  
Willow swallowed. "Oh, well, it's just... I kind of... I heard that Thanksgiving at your house was really nice."  
  
Buffy smiled. "If they ever make beating around the bush an Olympic sport, you're a shoo-in for a medal. Just spit it out."  
  
Willow took a deep breath and spread her hands out on the table. "What's up with you and Angel?" A huge nervous grin broke across her face. "Yeah, there, I did it, just like I wanted to. Wasn't even that hard."  
  
Buffy leaned back. The smile drained from her face, leaving it a motionless gray mask. She looked down at her hands. "Why are you asking me this?"  
  
Willow nodded, still hyped from her assertiveness breakthrough. "Buffy, he got us together the other night. He came to my house asking for help." She bit her lower lip. "We've all accepted that he's back, but what does that mean?"  
  
"Why does it have to mean anything?" Buffy's voice was hoarse.  
  
Willow took a couple of deep breaths to psych herself up. "Buffy, he didn't come back from a trip across Europe. He came back from-" She looked around and leaned forward, lowering her voice "-hell."  
  
"You know, Will, I know that. I live with that, because I sent him there."  
  
"But you didn't bring him back."  
  
"What?" Buffy's voice was sharp and Willow flinched. It took a moment for her to gather her confidence and continue.  
  
"I said you didn't bring him back." Willow's took on that slightly distressed, slightly excited look that the Slayer knew so well. "I've been studying... stuff, and you don't just get out of hell. It's not like there's a gate that's left unlocked. Something brought him back. Don't you wonder why?"  
  
"No, I don't." Buffy looked up at her friend and Willow felt a sharp pain in her heart as she saw tears in the Slayer's eyes. "I had nightmares every time I closed my eyes, and just when I was finally, finally starting to deal, he came back and now he twists the knife every chance he gets."  
  
"You came back too." The words surprised Willow as they popped out of her mouth.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You went away, and you came back. He went away and he came back." Willow shook her head. "It's got to mean something, Buffy."  
  
"Yeah, it means it's never over."  
  
"Are you saying you don't feel anything for him anymore?" Willow blurted out the question. Buffy stared at her best friend, a stare that gave Willow the uncomfortable feeling that the Slayer was reading the redhead's thoughts off the inside of her skull.  
  
"Do I feel anything for him? Do you even realize how inadequate that question is?" Buffy pushed away from the table. "I appreciate your concern, I really do. And I'm aware that when it comes to Angel, you've been more understanding than Xander-of course, Attila the Hun with hemorrhoids would be more understanding than Xander."  
  
"What if it's all Brownian motion?" Willow threw out the first thing that came to mind.  
  
"If it's what?"  
  
"Brownian motion. The idea that all objects are constantly in motion, even when they appear to be at rest. It may look like you're just sitting there, but all your molecules are vibrating. What if you and Angel are vibrating toward each other?"  
  
"Okay, Will, I've got to go. You might want to go home and lie down because you're starting to make the kind of sense that isn't. Your brain is overheating."  
  
"Buffyyyyyyyy." The look on Willow's face was a look often seen in pet stores, usually on the face of the last cocker spaniel puppy and directed toward the parents of a small boy who wanted to spend his birthday money. It was enough to make the Slayer hesitate.  
  
Buffy looked away, then gave Willow the stare again. "Did you get a subscription to Soap Opera Digest? Why is this a deal now?"  
  
Willow bit her lip again. "Buffy, I know this hurts, but I want to say one last thing." She stood up and hoisted her backpack. "It hurts him too. And I think that each of you is making the pain worse by being so stubborn." She took two steps and turned back to the Slayer. "He came to me to help you. You can't ignore that." She walked out of the café, leaving Buffy open-mouthed and staring.  
  
***  
  
Rupert Giles peeled away the dressing covering Buffy's neck wound. "It's looking better," he said as he examined the lacerations. "I'm certainly no medical expert, but I'd say that within a week you'll be as good as new."  
  
"Fat chance," Buffy said. "I'll never be that again."  
  
Giles frowned as he tossed the soiled gauze into a wastebasket. "Is something wrong?" He took clean gauze and medical tape from a first-aid kit.  
  
Buffy licked her lips. "Giles, could I ask you a question?"  
  
The librarian used precise strokes to clip the pieces of tape to a uniform length. "I am a Watcher, learned in mystic lore and charged with your training and counsel. I believe that answering questions falls under that rubric."  
  
"Okay, not sure what that meant, but it sounded like someone related to RuPaul." Buffy nodded.  
  
Giles smiled as he arranged the tape on his desk. "It means you can ask me a question." He took a gauze pad and placed over the scabbed puncture marks on her neck. "Hold that there."  
  
Buffy placed her fingers to her neck as Giles picked up a length of tape. "What's the deal with Angel?"  
  
Giles' fingers trembled as he attempted to affix the tape, which folded back on itself in a snarl. "Damn," he muttered. "What do you mean?"  
  
Buffy's eyes slid sideways to look at him. "Are you okay? Did I hit a nerve?"  
  
Giles rubbed his forehead. "Why... why on earth would you think that?"  
  
Buffy gave him a look. "Because you look like I hit a nerve."  
  
Giles took a deep breath and forced his hands to his sides. "Perhaps you could be more specific."  
  
"You're major knowledge guy, and with Gerard here I thought you might have discussed the issue." Buffy tried to keep her voice bland and impersonal.  
  
"We did." Giles picked up another piece of tape and turned to her neck. "We formed several hypotheses, none of which can be proven."  
  
"Do you have any idea how or why he's back?"  
  
"We could only guess as to how, since it's never happened before." Giles pressed the tape against her skin. "I have no clue as to why."  
  
Buffy kept her voice steady. "So, it could be for some reason?"  
  
Giles stepped back. "I suppose. It's problematic at best to try and decipher the purposes of the universe. I prefer to concentrate on the situation at hand." He spoke in short, clipped tones.  
  
Buffy licked her lips. "Are you mad at me?"  
  
Giles looked stunned. "Angry at you? Why would you think that?"  
  
The Slayer shrugged. "I don't know.... Might be the vaguely pissed-off look on your face."  
  
Giles ducked his head and rubbed his forehead. "Buffy, when Angel came to our rescue, my feelings were... ambivalent at best. I was glad to receive any help, but I was not..." Giles took off his glasses and looked up, perhaps counting the roof beams. "I wasn't prepared for the... more negative reactions I experienced."  
  
Buffy looked puzzled, then realization and dismay spread across her face. "Oh, Giles, I'm so sorry. I hadn't even thought about Ms. Calendar." Her hand flew to her mouth. "And I'm sorry for saying that."  
  
Giles nodded. "Yes, that was one thing that came to mind." The fingers of his left hand massaged the right in an unconscious gesture. Buffy did not miss it.  
  
"Giles, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." She slipped off the desk. "I should go."  
  
He stopped her. "No. It is painful, but it must be brought into the open. I have been remiss in my duties. I have turned a blind eye to this situation. I have done so because of my own feelings, which is something a Watcher should never do."  
  
Buffy gazed at him for a moment, her eyes taking in the loosened tie, the spiky hair, the carelessly rolled shirtsleeves, and the gentle expression in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I never even thought about how this might be affecting you. Can you forgive me?"  
  
Giles shook his head. "No need to ask. We all tend to put our own problems at the center of the world, and you've more right to that than most." He pursed his lips. "And given the part Angel has played in your life thus far, I don't believe it's far-fetched to assume that he has returned for some purpose." He chose his next words carefully. "It would be dangerous, however, to simply presume that purpose to be good."  
  
Buffy blew out a breath, lifting her bangs off her forehead. "When you start using that many modifiers, it's never of the good."  
  
Giles ducked his head. "I suppose I do begin to sound like a barrister."  
  
"Wait, I know this one." Buffy raised her hand. "The barrister is the one that actually talks in court, right?"  
  
"Yes, the barrister is the one who actually talks in court." Giles smiled briefly in spite of himself. "Buffy, are you thinking of... re-establishing contact with Angel?"  
  
"Willow thinks I should. Unless that was a really fancy-pants euphemism for doin' it, in which case, no, definitely not, how could you even think that." Buffy tilted her head forward and glared at him.  
  
"I wasn't joking." Giles' voice was sober. "I'll leave that decision up to you. But if you decide to see him, be careful. Try and do so on neutral ground, preferably with your friends around you."  
  
Buffy made a puzzled face. "Why all the movie of the week stuff?"  
  
Giles touched his upper lip with a forefinger. "Buffy, you yourself have mentioned that he seems distant, almost detached. He... The place that he... It would change a person."  
  
"I know. I'm familiar with that sort of change." She headed for the door.  
  
"Buffy." Giles stepped forward, his hand out. "Please don't think I'm belittling your experience, but it would be a mistake to compare your ordeal to his. I'm sure that what you went through was trying, but it doesn't begin to resemble his torments."  
  
Buffy looked at her Watcher, a ghost of a bitter smile touching her lips. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."  
  
***  
  
"Tell me about this curse," Mr. Trick said.  
  
Delilah consulted her notes. "One of our independents discovered an ancient Babylonian document that made a direct reference to a ritual to be used in the unmaking of the object."  
  
Trick looked annoyed. "Damn, does there always have to be another complication?" He tugged at the ring in his left ear. "At least this Slayer situation will be resolved soon."  
  
"Yes, about that." Mr. Quisling's eyebrows pulled together and his lips pursed. "All the arrangements have been made, but I wonder if I might ask a question?"  
  
Trick cast a languid look over his shoulder. "If you never ask, how will you learn?"  
  
"I don't want to give the impression that I doubt the efficacy of your plan, or that I consider myself any sort of--"  
  
"Quisling, just ask the question."  
  
"Sorry. I'm just having difficulty understanding the purpose of this strategy. It seems unnecessarily complex and I'm not sure how it alleviates our predicament."  
  
Trick smiled, looking like a tickled cobra. "Seems like it would be easier to just kill one or both of them, is that your point?" Quisling hesitated, then inclined his head in the direction of his mentor. Trick stroked his own cheek with a forefinger. "Quisling, if we kill the Slayer, what will happen?"  
  
Quisling frowned. "Well, I... Another Slayer would be called."  
  
"Correct. Another Slayer, one who would be a complete enigma to us. Everything about her would be unfamiliar-her fighting style, her personality, her capabilities, all unknown. All we've done is exchange a known opponent for an unknown, which is never sound strategy."  
  
Quisling tried to follow the train of thought. "So what we're hoping to do is...?"  
  
Trick shrugged. "We won't have to fight either of them anymore. Plus there'll be no new Slayer to deal with. We can concentrate on fulfilling our contract."  
  
Quisling shook his head. "You seem so sure."  
  
Trick's laughter was a short harsh bark of curdled mirth. "Always know your opponent, Quisling. Once you do that, you can predict what they'll do every time."  
  
***  
  
The clacking sound of the library doors caused Giles to look up. Lindsay Maeda stood just inside the door.  
  
"Is anything wrong?" Giles asked, getting to his feet.  
  
"What? No, no." Lindsay shook her head. "Faith's out, so I decided to take a walk." She gestured toward the doors behind her. "I saw the lights on so I invited myself in."  
  
"It's a pleasant night for a walk." Giles stuck his hands in his pockets. "That's a lovely coat."  
  
"Yeah." Lindsay ran a gloved hand over the lapel of her black wool overcoat. "It doesn't get as cold here as it does in Providence, but it's still chilly after dark. Listen," she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, "would you like to get something to eat?"  
  
"I'm afraid I'm rather busy here. I thought I would eat after I got home."  
  
"Oh. Well, could you use a hand?" Lindsay pointed at the table behind him. Giles glanced at the open books and hesitated. "Thank you for offering," he said, "but this is dreadfully dusty stuff. It's really just a personal interest."  
  
"Oh." Lindsay looked down at her hands. "Well, then I ... guess I'll be going."  
  
"Yes, well, enjoy your walk." Giles lifted a hand as she left. As soon as she was gone he sat down and pulled a volume to him. A yellow pad was filled with closely spaced, crabbed handwriting. He had been here since school ended three hours ago and he wasn't sure if he had learned anything worthwhile.  
  
It was an article of faith with Rupert Giles that the Watchers Council was motivated by a desire to do good. Granted, there were unseemly incidents in the past, and dark periods when those benevolent intentions were more notable for their absence, but he had never doubted the organization's essential rectitude. His very being rebelled against Gerard Roland's assertion that rituals were being tampered with, yet he could not dismiss the claims out of hand. He turned to his constant comfort, research. He would decipher the rites, ferret out any anomalies, and document historic variations.  
  
That had been his plan. Instead, he was finding that the actual dogma and practice of the Council was much slippier than the official version. In the years preceding Buffy's arrival in Sunnydale, Giles had whiled away the time by amassing a substantial personal library. He had combed antique bookstores, flea markets and estate sales, concentrating on volumes with some connection to the Council. His vacations were spent on the Continent and he was on the mailing list of some Scottish book dealers of dubious legality. Substantial portions of his collection had remained unread-the diaries, memoirs, and personal histories mostly. These were the tomes he read tonight, and in the disagreements and things left unsaid an unsavory idea was growing. Perhaps Gerard was right.  
  
***  
  
Lindsay walked with her head down. The night air wasn't really cool enough for the coat. She'd put it on because it was her favorite winter coat and this was the time of year when she was supposed to wear it. Back home it would be really cold, frosty, not warm enough for shirtsleeves during the day and crisp at night. There might even be snow for Christmas at her parents' house, with the roast turkey and the big spruce tree. But there would be none of that in Sunnydale. Instead, Christmas was going to be a patched-together shindig at the ValleyView. It would still probably be the best Christmas Faith had ever experienced, and that was really heartbreaking.  
  
Lindsay looked around at the unfamiliar landscape, at the plastic Santas placed beneath palm trees, and felt very alone and far from home. When the Watchers Council had contacted her, it all seemed so noble. Then she had seen Faith's desperate home life and almost before they were introduced they were heading cross-country after a vampire. They were on a mythic quest, two knights out to banish evil. The quest had crash-landed here at the end of America, in a cheap motel, far away from anyone she knew, in the middle of a situation that grew more confusing every day. The Watchers might not be allies after all, Faith's emotional and psychic needs were even greater than she'd imagined, and Mr. Giles, whom she had hoped would be a mentor, someone to help her accelerate her learning curve, had become more distant than empathy at a Limp Bizkit show.  
  
Lindsay Maeda felt very, very alone. She wanted to go home. Absorbed in her funk, she failed to notice the shadows keeping pace with her. Her feet beat a staccato tattoo on the sidewalk as they slipped through the dark.  
  
***  
  
"They've got her." Delilah flipped the cell phone closed.  
  
"Good." Trick rolled his head around, loosening his neck. "Let's get this party started." 


	2. chapter 2

They took an elevator to the basement, then went along a fluorescent-lit corridor to a nondescript steel door. Trick paused a moment, his hand on the knob. He looked Delilah and Quisling. "Here we go. Watch me work." He went in.  
  
The room was a square, no more than twelve by twelve. When CRT was up and running it would have been the cubicle of some flunkey from accounting, or a supply room. Now a gray metal table stood against one wall. Various implements were laid out on it. Two fluorescent tubes cast a sterile white light and emitted a faint hum. A straight-backed metal chair was chained to the opposite wall. Lindsay Maeda sat in the chair.  
  
Duct tape wound around her calves, securing them to the front legs of the chair. Her arms were bound to the chair back by tape just below her elbows. Her wrists were taped to the back legs. The binding was tight; her fingers were turning purple. Her face was bruised and puffy; blood oozed from her nose and trickled from a split lip.  
  
Trick studied her for a moment, then picked up a pair of latex gloves and a paper smock from the table. As he put the gloves on, he spoke to the vamp standing guard. "I assume she fought?"  
  
The guard nodded. "Oh yeah."  
  
One corner of Trick's mouth lifted in a sneer. "Glad to see you were able to subdue her." He crossed the room to Lindsay, kicking a crumpled pile of cloth out of his path. "Sorry about your coat," he said. "It looks like it was nice."  
  
Lindsay raised her head and stared at him, saying nothing. The back of Trick's fingers brushed a lock of hair from her face. "No snappy comment?" he said. "No spitting at me? Glad to see you're not falling back on cliches."  
  
Lindsay swallowed. "Why don't you just go ahead and kill me? That way I don't have to listen to you." Her voice was a hoarse croak.  
  
Trick shook his head. "Couldn't resist an attempt at bravery, could you? Quisling, would you hand me that?" Quisling picked up a metal rectangle with a hole through the center. Trick hefted it in his hand, studying Lindsay. He nodded. "I think the right pinkie. That should do nicely." The guard slashed the duct tape with a single stroke and grabbed her arm. Lindsay's eyes widened; the tendons in her neck stood out in sharp relief as she struggled against his grip, but he was too strong and she had no leverage. Her arm was held out straight in front of her. She balled her fist. Trick sighed. "Why you wanna make this hard?" he said as he grabbed her hand and began to unbend the little finger. A dry pop echoed in the room as her finger broke at the first joint. Lindsay gasped as her hand relaxed of its own accord. Trick slipped the metal rectangle over the finger and nodded to the guard. The big vamp locked his arm over Lindsay's, immobilizing the limb. Trick took a deep breath, let out slowly, and looked over his shoulder at Quisling and Delilah.  
  
"These things are good for so much more than just trimming cigars," he said and slammed the blade down. A grinding crunch split the air. Blood spattered on his paper surgical gown. Lindsay screamed and fainted as Trick caught the severed pinkie before it hit the ground.  
  
"Bandage her hand," he said to the guard as he examined the bloody digit. His latex glove was smeared with crimson. He held the gory bit of bone and flesh toward Quisling. "Let's get this boxed up so we can get it delivered."  
  
***  
  
"Hello."  
  
"B, it's Faith. Have you seen Lindsay tonight?"  
  
"No, I've been home all night studying. Why?"  
  
"I just got in and she isn't here."  
  
Buffy recognized that thin, metallic edge in the other girl's voice. "Faith, calm down. She's probably in the library with Giles. Or she went to see a band at the U or Crestwood." She glanced at the clock. "Why don't you sleep over here?"  
  
"I think I'm gonna wait for Linz."  
  
"Faith, here's a news flash—Lindsay's the grownup, you're the kid. You went out, she went out, she's getting in late. Come on over. You'll see her tomorrow." A pause followed, so long that Buffy thought the connection might be broken, then Faith said, "Okay. You're probably right, I'm being paranoid. See ya in twenty."  
  
Buffy hung up the phone. "Mom, Faith's coming over. I'll make up the guest room."  
  
***  
  
Lindsay concentrated on not moving her right hand. Since it was once again taped to the chair, this seemed like an easy task, but it wasn't. Her right arm seemed to end in a lump of hot iron that had somehow acquired a pulse. The pain had diminished from the screaming agony of the moments following the amputation of her finger to a slow, rise-and-fall wave that throbbed through her being. The red haze had faded as the pain changed, but she still couldn't concentrate. Probably a concussion; easy to get one when someone kicked you in the head. They had bandaged her hand with crude loops of gauze and tape. Blood had soaked through the dressing almost immediately and was now forming a crust as it dried. The drippings had collected on the concrete floor. An involuntary shudder passed through her as she remembered how the guard stooped and swirled a finger through the scarlet puddle, then lifted it to his mouth, like a kid licking cake batter off a spoon.  
  
A hollow banging sounded a long way off, then she realized that someone had opened the door. Auditory senses playing tricks on her… probably the concussion again. Someone squatted in front of her. It required an intense effort to bring Trick into focus. He looked at her, his handsome face bland and impassive.  
  
"It's a bitch, ain't it?" he said as if remarking on a freak thunderstorm that had ruined a picnic. "You just doing your job, chasing that hillbilly, and you end up here." Lindsay didn't reply. Her tongue felt dry and swollen. Somewhere in the random firing of synapses a flash of memory flared—it had been hours since her last drink of anything. Trick examined the sodden, crusty wrapping on her hand then stood. "It'll do," he said. "Long enough."  
  
***  
  
Buffy drained the dregs of her orange juice as Faith entered the kitchen. The brunette's hair was disheveled and she wore the same clothes as last night.  
  
"Mom had an early appointment at the gallery," Buffy said. "Toast is probably the best I can offer for breakfast."  
  
"Don't sweat it." Faith was already at the back door. "I'm gonna swing by the hovel, grab a shower, bust Lindsay's chops." She stepped out the door, then stuck her head back inside. "Thanks for the sleepover, B. Hey, who knows, maybe Linz met somebody and got her ashes hauled last night."  
  
"Your limitless capacity for romance leaves me breathless." Buffy shook her head. "See you at school."  
  
***  
  
Xander shambled toward the steps. The cuffs of his magenta and burgundy shirt were unbuttoned and flapped in the breeze of his passing as his battered Airwalks scuffed along the concrete. He reached the bottom of the stairs just as Buffy emerged from the crowd. The Slayer looked sharp in a long-sleeved lavender T over black pants. "Hey, Buffarino," he said.  
  
"Don't ever call me that again," she said. "It's lame."  
  
"Okay, lameness noted. What's with the short sharp shocked today?" The first two fingers of his right hand brushed his neck. "Bandage too tight?"  
  
"No. Just making my feelings known."  
  
"Always a good thing." Xander squinted in the sunlight, looking toward the school.  
  
"How's things with you? You and Cor look more at ease in one another's company." Buffy hitched up her backpack and shifted her weight to her right leg.  
  
"We are. Things are getting better."  
  
"Has she told you about…?" Buffy let the question hang there, unasked.  
  
"Not yet, but I think we're moving toward it. She's opened up a little, you know, a little crying, a little laughing."  
  
Buffy looked up at him and smiled. "You're a good guy. Just hang in there."  
  
Xander smirked. "I'm hanging. Funny thing is, I'm kinda liking it, you know, being solid there-for-you guy."  
  
Buffy's grin widened. "Be careful. Down that road lies wacky sidekickness." She glanced at the school. "Uh-oh."  
  
Xander followed her gaze. "Why is Giles standing there looking like that?"  
  
"I've seen this look before. It's the 'Buffy-you've-failed-again' look."  
  
Xander glanced at her, his head cocked to one side. "I'd say someone's a glass half-empty gal."  
  
Buffy threw him a sardonic glance. "Nonsense. I'm content with my glass. Giles thinks it's half-empty."  
  
"Ah." Xander squeezed her shoulder. "Be strong, as I will be strong in Chem."  
  
"Coward." Buffy detached herself and jogged up the steps toward the librarian. Giles stood just outside the double doors. He looked agitated and even more pale than usual. Buffy stopped in front of him, arms swinging loose at her sides. "Gee, Giles, I seriously think it's time for decaf."  
  
The humor flew over his head. "Have you seen Faith?"  
  
Buffy shrugged and made a pouty mouth. "Yeah, she spent the night at my house last night."  
  
Giles flicked at his glasses. "Do you know where she is now?"  
  
"She was gonna check at the motel. Lindsay was out late, Faith wanted to touch base before school." Buffy's nonchalance turned to galvanized shock as Giles' knees buckled and he staggered, catching himself on the doorjamb. "Giles, what's wrong?"  
  
He pulled himself upright, shaking his head. "Not here," he said, his voice trembling. "The library." Buffy's puzzlement grew as she followed him. He was moving so fast that she had to practically run to keep up.  
  
Giles made a beeline through the library for his office. Buffy stopped just inside the doorway. "Do you want to explain what's wrong?"  
  
Giles leaned heavily on the desk. "I think something has happened to Lindsay."  
  
"Why?" Buffy's forehead puckered in a frown. "Grownups do get to stay out late, you know. You should try it sometime. It's one of the perks."  
  
Giles took a deep, almost gulping breath. His hand scrabbled across his desktop and clutched a small box. It looked like it came from a jewelry store. He thrust it at the Slayer. "When I arrived this morning, this was on my desk."  
  
Buffy's frown deepened as she took the box. She looked at him again, then opened the box. She jerked back, barely keeping it in her grip. "Oh God," she gasped. "Giles, there's a finger in here."  
  
"I know," Giles said. "Do you recognize it?"  
  
Buffy stared at the disembodied appendage. "Giles, are you telling me that this is Lindsay's finger?" Giles nodded. Buffy noticed that he was flexing his right hand. She closed the box. "I'd better find Faith."  
  
"Yes," he said. "I think that would be wise."  
  
***  
  
Willow recognized the chunky black boots propped on the table in the lounge. She leaned over the back of the sofa. "Hi," she said.  
  
Faith looked at her and frowned, then twisted the headphones off her ears. "Hey. What's up?"  
  
Willow made a not-much face. "Whatcha listening to?"  
  
Faith brandished the headphones. "Letters to Cleo."  
  
Willow nodded. "They're good."  
  
"You're familiar? Huh." Faith leaned back on the sofa. "I figured you for Sara MacLachlan or Natalie Merchant, y'know, sensitive white girl with pretensions to soulfulness."  
  
Willow's smile grew a little stiff. "Well, hanging with Oz has broadened my horizons."  
  
"Faith." Buffy sounded a little breathless as she hurried up to them. "Giles needs to see us in the library, right now."  
  
"Coming." Faith levered herself off the couch in a smooth, easy movement. "Lindsay there?"  
  
Buffy hesitated then said, "No." The Slayers set out down the hall. Willow shrugged, then tagged along.  
  
***  
  
"Hey Oz."  
  
He turned at the sound of his name. Trey Garcia, hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans, tossed his long hair back. Adrenaline surged through Oz's veins. He ran a hand over the front of his T-shirt, feeling the stiffness of the Guadalcanal Diary logo under his palm. "Can I do something for you?" he asked.  
  
"Depends," Trey said. "What are you doing after school?"  
  
"I'm sure I can think of something." The only change in Oz's expression was a slight narrowing of the eyes.  
  
"Well, why don't we jam a little? If you don't have your Tele I've got a guitar you can borrow."  
  
Oz looked away to his right. "I don't know. I may be all out of jam."  
  
"C'mon. Just for an hour or so."  
  
Oz started to make up an excuse but stopped. You had to deal sometime, might as well be sooner as later. "Okay. Meet me at the bottom of the front steps."  
  
"Got it. See you then." Trey ran both hands through his hair as he sauntered down the hall. For an instant Oz felt the urge to growl.  
  
***  
  
Giles looked up as the girls came through the library doors. He glanced over Faith's shoulder to Buffy. Her eyes widened and she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Faith dropped into a chair. Buffy sat beside her. Willow hung back just inside the door, her internal radar pinging like crazy. Something bad was happening here.  
  
Giles stood at the head of the table, his fingertips brushing the polished surface. "Faith, have you had any contact with Lindsay this morning?"  
  
Faith frowned. "No. Haven't you?"  
  
Giles swallowed. "I… No, I haven't. Faith, I'm afraid that something may have happened to Lindsay."  
  
Faith shot up out of the chair. Buffy came up with her, one hand going around the other girl's shoulders in a gesture that was half hug, half restraint. "Wh-what happened?" Faith demanded. "Has she been in an accident?"  
  
Giles shook his head. "It seems to be something much more… premeditated than that."  
  
Faith looked from Giles to Buffy and back again. "This is bullshit. What does that mean?" Her gaze whipped back and forth. Her lips trembled as a weird, panicky light shone in her eyes.  
  
"Faith." Buffy hugged her close. "Giles thinks someone… has Lindsay."  
  
"What?" The dark Slayer sagged and Buffy released her. Faith lowered herself shakily into the chair. "Why do you think that?"  
  
"I really don't--" Giles stopped when he saw Buffy's face.  
  
"She's the Slayer," the blond girl said. "She should know."  
  
Giles looked at her for a moment, then went into his office and returned carrying a small box. He placed it on the table in front of Faith, his fingers lingering for a moment. She gripped the edge of the table, staring at it. Willow was torn between wanting to lean forward or shrinking back into the corner. Faith swallowed hard and reached out with a trembling hand. She lifted the lid from the box.  
  
Her scream split the air like a siren. Giles and Willow jumped; even Buffy, who thought she was prepared for any reaction, flinched. The shriek rose in pitch and intensity and then cut off. Faith stared at the open box, eyes wide, her face bleached of all color. The room felt as though a giant spark of static electricity had just been discharged. Chicken skin puckered along Willow's arms.  
  
"What is going on here?" Principal Snyder entered the room like a bad smell. The top of his head gave off a glow that was practically self- righteous as he scanned the library. "I said 'What is going on'?"  
  
"Uh, drama," Buffy blurted. "Faith's thinking of auditioning for the school play."  
  
Snyder regarded her through narrowed eyes. "The student production this year is The Wizard of Oz, Miss Summers. What part would require the noise I just heard?"  
  
Willow swallowed. "The Wicked Witch. Of the West. She screams a lot." Snyder jumped and turned to look at her. His entrance had carried him right past her, unnoticed.  
  
"That's right," Buffy said. "The Wicked Witch." She snatched the box from the table just before Snyder swiveled to look at her.  
  
"So you see--" Giles began.  
  
"Quiet!" Snyder barked. He pointed at Faith. "Is this all about the school play?"  
  
Buffy held her breath. Faith still looked shell-shocked, pale and shaky. She could lose it right here. She looked at Snyder, her eyes wide. Buffy held her breath as a short movie played in her mind, a movie where Faith came right over the table and put her fist through Snyder's face.  
  
"Yeah," Faith said. "It might help me with my shyness."  
  
Snyder looked at them again, eyes blazing and mouth working. He so wanted to spit out some venomous retort, but all he did was glare, then spin on his heel and stalk out of the room. As the door clicked shut behind him the very room seemed to exhale in relief. Faith got to her feet. Her eyes looked down, seeing nothing but some inner vision. Her fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles stood out in red relief.  
  
"We find him," she said in that low, quiet voice common to true believers and psycho killers. "We find him and then I cut off his finger and stuff it down his throat before I stake his ass."  
  
"Whoa there," Buffy said. "We don't even know what's happened to Lindsay."  
  
"Yeah, we do." Faith turned her bleak stare on the other Slayer. "We followed him here. This is his style. The Reverend's got Lindsay."  
  
A moment of silence ricocheted around the room before Giles said, "That may well be, but we don't know where he is."  
  
"But we know someone who would." Buffy looked at the box in her hand, shuddered, and handed it to Giles. "I'm going to see Willie."  
  
"I'm going with you." Faith was around the table in a flash.  
  
"Probably not a good idea." Buffy extended her hand like a traffic cop. "I want to talk to Willie, not beat him into pudding."  
  
"I'm going, B, ain't nothin' you can do to stop me." Faith's arms spread wide, hands open. "You think you can, take your shot."  
  
Buffy looked at the other girl and tried to imagine what she would do in that situation. Hell, she knew what she would do. She'd already done it last May. "Okay, but the most we do to Willie is scare him, got it?"  
  
Faith grinned, a terrifying expression. "Five by five. I can be pretty scary."  
  
***  
  
Willie's bar was dark and cool, two traits vampires and other demons appreciated in a hangout. That made the shaft of sunlight that lanced through the door even more disturbing. Angel shifted in his seat, unconsciously pulling away from the light. The door closed behind the Slayers. They looked around the room. The bar was almost deserted, which was usually the case in the late morning. Buffy's eyes ran around the room's perimeter, passed across Angel, came back to him. Their gazes locked. The world stopped for a heartbeat, then the girls headed toward the bar. Angel kept his head down, his hands toying with his glass as his eyes followed them.  
  
Buffy was in the lead as they approached Willie. She spoke to him but her voice was too low for Angel to overhear. Willie shook his head. Buffy said something else. The snitch shook his head again and took a step backward. Faith's fist flashed past Buffy's head. The blond Slayer threw up a hand, deflecting the punch just enough for it to glance off Willie's shoulder instead of caving in his sinuses. The force of the blow still spun him around and caused him to lurch back into the bar, knocking a bottle onto the floor. The bottle shattered, spraying prismatic nuggets across the hardwood. Willie held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Buffy pointed at the bar. Willie scribbled something on a napkin and gave it to her. She tucked it in her pocket and the Slayers toward the door.  
  
Angel slipped out of his booth and moved along the wall. He timed it so as to meet Buffy just as she reached the door a few steps behind Faith.  
  
"Something wrong?" he asked.  
  
"It's under control," she said, making a point of looking at the door.  
  
"Better keep her on a short leash. Could be trouble if she gets loose."  
  
"Yeah, well, maybe it's justified." Buffy looked into his eyes. Angel almost winced.  
  
"Do you need my help?" he said.  
  
Buffy opened her mouth, stopped, then started again. "Thanks for the offer. I think we're all good." She looked at the door again, then back to Angel. "You said you ran with the Reverend. Would sending a severed finger as a message be his style?"  
  
Angel's face clouded. "Yeah, it would. Is this about him?"  
  
Buffy hesitated again. "It might be." She moved toward the door.  
  
"Wait." She turned back. He pointed at her neck. "How's the…"  
  
"Healing." She glanced toward the interior of the bar and back to him. "As long as I don't pick at the scab."  
  
He flinched. "Well, you better go."  
  
"Yeah, I better. Faith's probably halfway to wherever she's going by now." Angel stepped back as she opened the door, an involuntary, reflexive movement away from the light that warmed her and would sear him. He could hear her footsteps on the sidewalk, heard them echo in his head long after he knew she was gone. He turned, head down. Willie was trying to sweep all the shards of glass into a dustpan. Angel slid into his booth and pointed at his glass.  
  
"Hit me again," he said. "And put something extra in it." 


	3. chapter 3

Oz hunched over the steering wheel, his focus on the car in front of him. He was following Trey's old Karmann Ghia (figured even his car would be the ultimate shabby-cool vehicle) and wondering why he was here. The clattering Volkswagen turned into the concrete driveway of a 70's-era ranch-style house. Oz pulled to the curb. When he walked around the front of the van Trey was waving to him from the small porch.  
  
"Welcome to casa Garcia," Trey said as he opened the door. Oz stepped inside. He didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't this painfully neat collection of mismatched furniture dominated by bookcases stuffed to the gills. He followed Trey down the hall to the second door on the right.  
  
A framed promotional poster for Robert Cray's "Midnight Stroll" album hung over the bed. Issues of Guitar World, Guitar Player, and Guitar Shop were strewn around the room. Trey dug into the closet and pulled out a scuffed Fender hardshell case.  
  
"You wanna play the Strat?" he asked.  
  
Oz shook his head. "Middle pickup gets in the way."  
  
"Okay, uh, how about the Gibson?" Trey pointed to his red Howard Roberts model sitting in a stand under the window.  
  
Oz leaned against the doorjamb, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Sure." He pushed away from the door and took the guitar. Trey pointed to a black amplifier at the foot of the bed. "You can plug into that if you want. It's a Fender Studio 85. They don't make 'em anymore, but it's pretty sweet for a solid-state." Oz plugged the guitar cable into the amp and flipped the power switch. He strummed a couple of chords, adjusting to the size and resonance of the guitar.  
  
Trey slung the gold Strat over his shoulder. "Any particular song you feel like playing? 'Fields of Autumn' maybe?"  
  
Oz shook his head. "No Dingoes songs." He slipped the guitar strap over his head and placed the instrument back in the stand. "In fact, I really don't feel like playing at all."  
  
"Kind of hard to jam if you're not playing."  
  
"So you're going to do it." A corner of Oz's mouth twitched. "Kind of poetic justice if you think about it. In a way that sucks."  
  
Trey's fingers moved on the Strat's neck as he stared at Oz. "Devon said you were acting kind of squirrelly. I thought he was imagining it until now."  
  
Oz's eyes hardened. Blood began to thrum in his ears, almost roaring out his voice. "Is that the plan? Tell people I had to be eased out because I was 'unstable'?"  
  
Trey frowned. "You seem to have this strange idea that you're being forced out of Dingoes." Oz didn't move. Trey continued. "I could remind you that I was happy playing with Engines. I could remind you that it was your idea for me to play with Dingoes. But I won't." He plugged the Strat into the amp and ripped off a diminished lick with almost casual ease before turning to Oz. "So what's this about?"  
  
Oz felt choked. "Don't play me."  
  
For the first time Trey seemed angry. "Who's playing you?"  
  
Oz felt himself breathing fast. His heart thudded in his chest. "I can't play what you play. You've always got some great part or riff that I can't come up with."  
  
Trey sat down on the bed, guitar cradled in his lap. "That's it? I can noodle better than you?"  
  
"I wouldn't call it noodling."  
  
"Please." Trey banged out a series of bar chords. "That's all there is. Just twelve notes and some ways to group 'em. I can do that. But I can't do what you do." He leaned forward. "Do you know why Engines sucked? We didn't have the songs, man. I could play myself blue in the face, and I did, but it didn't matter. We didn't have the material. You have the material. You can do what I can't. You can write the songs."  
  
Oz frowned. "You don't have to make it sound like I'm Barry Manilow."  
  
***  
  
Xander sat on the grass and watched Cordelia walk toward him. That seemed like a simple thing, but what John Elway was to the two-minute drill, what Michael Jordan was to the last-second shot, what Lou Reed was to the gritty urban rocker, Cordelia Chase was to walking in a short skirt. She seemed to move at highlight speed-the not-quite-actual-velocity that ESPN used to show the day's great plays. Xander could have watched her all day.  
  
"Are you just going to sit there?" she asked.  
  
He patted the ground beside him. "You could join me."  
  
"In this skirt?" Cordelia made a wry face. "Yeah, that's what I want to do, flash half the school." A snappy reply formed in Xander's head, but he pushed it away and got to his feet. Cordelia took his hand as they walked across the lawn. "Do you have any plans for tonight?" she said.  
  
He shrugged. "Well, I was planning to spend it with the prettiest girl in school, but if she's busy I could call you."  
  
She pulled her hand away and thumped him on the shoulder. "That's not even funny." She took his hand again. "Listen, I was thinking--"  
  
"Xander!" They turned to see Willow sprinting toward them across the lawn. She skidded to a stop, her red sneakers sliding on the slick grass. "Giles needs us. Library." She spun on her heel to lead the way.  
  
"Wait a minute." Cordelia's jaw was set, her hands on her hips. "Why do we always have to drop everything and run to the library? There are lives going on here, you know."  
  
Willow took two steps toward them. "Giles thinks Lindsay's been kidnapped."  
  
Cordelia grimaced. "Oh poop. Now I look like the bad guy."  
  
***  
  
Faith paced the length of the library then turned and started back. "We go in and we get her. Kill anybody gets in our way. End of story."  
  
Cordelia raised her hand. Giles looked at her, his eyebrows rising toward his hairline. "I was just wondering if I was the only one who thought this had 'trap' written all over it," she said.  
  
"Screw that," Faith snapped. "I'll take 'em down so hard and fast it won't matter."  
  
Buffy looked at Willow. "Where's Oz?"  
  
Willow shrugged and looked apologetic. "I couldn't find him. Time was short."  
  
Giles raised his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "This is obviously some sort of ambush. I think that's plain on the face of it. Still, we cannot abandon Lindsay."  
  
Cordelia's eyes narrowed in thought. "So, even though we know it's a set-up, we're going to walk into it anyway?"  
  
"Boy, can she cut to the chase or what?" Xander squeezed her shoulder. "Hey, I even made a little pun. Get it? Cut to the 'chase'?"  
  
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Maybe you can paralyze them with your non-wit."  
  
Buffy gave him the gimlet eye. "We have no choice. At least not in what we do."  
  
Giles nodded. "We do, however, have a great deal of leeway in how and when."  
  
"Sound like you've already thought about it," Xander said.  
  
Giles nodded. "Willow and I have run through a number of scenarios."  
  
"Okay, great swami," Xander said. "Let's hear 'em."  
  
Giles ran a hand across his forehead. "This is the one we think will work the best."  
  
***  
  
"This was the best one? Man, I'd hate to see the ones that sucked." Xander kicked at the dirt. Giles ignored him. The address Willie the snitch had given them was the dilapidated house at the end of the block. The Scoobies were across the street, giving them a long diagonal view of the property.  
  
"We have at least two hours of daylight," the Watcher said. "That's more than enough."  
  
"Fifteen minutes will be enough," Faith snarled.  
  
"Look, we know you're tougher than leather, so just throttle back, okay?" Buffy extended a placating hand toward Faith. The other girl shook it off and pointed toward Giles with her chin.  
  
"Would you be patient if he was in there?" she said.  
  
Buffy nodded. "Yeah. Because that would be the best way to get him back safe. Try and chill."  
  
Faith's lips writhed. "Don't tell me to calm down. If I'd gone with my gut and hadn't been at your house, I might have found her last night." A heavy silence blossomed in the air. Buffy's face went paper-white.  
  
"Glad to see that didn't cause an awkward moment," Willow whispered to Xander.  
  
"Do you remember your role?" Giles asked. Xander hefted the sledgehammer he held.  
  
"When you guys go in, we uncover as many windows as we can," he said.  
  
"Concentrating on..." Giles prompted.  
  
"The south and west," Xander said, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Excuse me." Cordelia held her crowbar at arm's length. Perhaps she was afraid it would turn into a snake. "I can't stress enough how much damage using this will do to my manicure."  
  
"If Cordelia's on board," Buffy gave the cheerleader a pointed look, "let's go." City maps had revealed an alley that ran parallel to Huston Street behind the decaying residence. They crossed the street and slipped through a side yard. The alley was easy to spot; it was about eight feet wide and since it was city property, neither of the individuals whose property touched it bothered with mowing. Brittle yellow-brown grass, fat burrs and split seedpods choked the passage. Trees and hedges that bordered the alley had grown untrimmed, providing the six of them with an effective screen. They stopped in the lee of a large pine. Buffy held up a hand, then crept across the back yard. She made a complete circuit of the house.  
  
"Can't see inside," she whispered as she ducked back behind the tree. "Plywood over all the windows. Seems quiet though." She moved out, the Scoobies in single file behind her. They eased onto the sagging porch and arrayed themselves on either side of the door, Xander, Cordelia, and Faith on the left, Buffy, Willow, and Giles on the right. Giles examined the door carefully, then nodded to Buffy. She seated herself in front of the door, rolled back on her shoulders and unleashed a powerful kick that splintered the door and separated it from its hinges. Faith was in before the door popped out of the frame and the others followed.  
  
They were in a large rectangular room, standing about midway along one of the long sides. A stairway led up from the west end and a steel door underneath it promised basement access. Giles pointed up. The Slayers nodded and launched themselves up the stairs, the Watcher close behind. Xander went for the windows.  
  
The heavy velvet (what was it with vampires and the velvet, Xander thought. Was it something hard-wired in or was it just tradition?) drapes came down with a yank, pooling on the floor. Half-inch plywood covered the frame. Cordelia got the crowbar behind the wood. Xander and Willow leaned on it with her. Nails screamed as they were torn from aged oak sills. The four by eight sheet of plywood twisted loose on one side. Xander drew back the sledgehammer and brought it crashing down, as the first screams became audible. The panel pinwheeled off the frame, knocking a hole in the drywall as sunlight came streaming through the dirty windows. Working on the theory that anything that interrupted light was bad, Xander used the hammer to knock the glass out of the frames. The three of them paused in a golden swirl of sunlight and dust before moving to the next window.  
  
They had all the windows on the west clear by the time Buffy and Faith came back down the stairs. Xander made eye contact with Buffy and was rewarded with a tiny shake of her head. No Lindsay. Faith reached for the door to the basement.  
  
"Whoa." Buffy grabbed her arm. "You're not just charging down there blind."  
  
Faith shook loose. "Time's wasting. She's got to be down there."  
  
"Faith, we only found four vampires upstairs. We know this guy has a pretty good posse. That's means they'll be packed into the basement like thirteen year-olds at a Hanson concert."  
  
"Brrrr." Xander shuddered. "I hate those guys."  
  
"Hanson or vampires?" Willow asked.  
  
"Both."  
  
Faith's eyes smoldered. "I'm going down there, with you or through you. Your call, B."  
  
Buffy gripped the brunette Slayer by the shoulders. "Faith, we've got to find out what's down there."  
  
"Uh, guys?" Willow pointed toward the door. "I think we're going to find out." The sound of feet pounding on the stairs became audible just seconds before the door crashed open, framing a lanky vamp in battle-face. Sounds of movement came from behind him. Faith reached out and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward. Buffy and Giles slammed the door closed. Xander dropped the sledgehammer and added his weight to theirs.  
  
Faith jerked the vamp up on tiptoe. "Where is she?" she screamed, flecks of spit spraying the demon's face.  
  
"Wh-who?" the vampire stammered.  
  
Faith walked the vamp back until it teetered on the brink of the patch of sunlight cast by the open window. Willow and Cordelia pulled back. "One more time," Faith snarled. "Where is she?"  
  
The vampire flailed in panic. "Who? Who are you looking for?"  
  
"Wrong answer." A look of hatred so crazed it made Xander blanch passed across Faith's face and she thrust the creature back into the light. An unearthly shriek was torn from its throat. It began to smoke; its arms flailed like a man trying to shoo a wasp from his back. Writhing and screaming, it burst into flame an instant after Faith released her grip.  
  
Willow fanned the air in front of her face. "Man, I hate it when they burn."  
  
"Tell me about it." Cordelia coughed. "I'll never get the smell out of my hair."  
  
"Guys, more pressing problems." Buffy's voice betrayed a certain amount of strain. The basement door shook under the force of heavy blows. Giles was grateful that the vampires had installed the security door; a regular wooden panel would have been in splinters by now.  
  
"Cor, Willow, get outside." Xander leaned into the door at a forty-five degree angle. The girls hustled out the front door. Faith fell in beside Xander.  
  
"Your turn," she said to him. "Get out."  
  
"Normally my cowardice would produce instant obedience." Xander's voice was tight. "But what will you do?"  
  
"Xander!" Buffy shouted over her shoulder. "Look in the bag. What do we have?"  
  
Xander scuttled over to the Slayer bag and rummaged through it. "Stakes, cross... Holy water." He held up four bottles. "How long can you hold them?" The upper corner of the door was beginning to bend outward.  
  
"How long do we need to?" Buffy grunted. Xander didn't reply. He gathered up the curtains torn from the window and soaked them with the sacred solution. He tossed the last empty bottle away and scooped up the sodden velvet.  
  
"Okay," he said. "Let it go."  
  
The Slayers and the Watcher stepped back. The door sprang open. Two vampires tried to lunge out and collided, wedging themselves in the doorway. Xander dashed forward and threw the holy water-soaked drapes over them. As the burning drapery fell over them the vamps howled and toppled backward, clearing the steps. Buffy slammed the door as Giles grabbed the bag and the four of them beat a retreat to the overgrown lawn where Willow and Cordelia waited. Buffy bent over, her hands on her knees and her breath coming in huge gulps.  
  
"What happened?" Willow demanded in an urgent tone. "What... " Her voice faded away. Buffy looked up. She didn't need to be told that the figure just inside the door was Othniel Hampton. Everything about him looked hard and judgmental. He stared out at them from the safety of the interior gloom and spoke with a voice like a prophet bent on either saving or killing.  
  
"Why have you come to my house?"  
  
"Like you don't know, you sonofabitch," Faith spat.  
  
He looked at her. "Yes, the Slayer who has dogged my heels. Where is your minder, girl?"  
  
"You've got her, you bastard." Faith actually took a step toward the porch. "Let her go or I'll kill you."  
  
Hampton chuckled, a sound like rubbing two sandpaper blocks together. "Perhaps it is my destiny to die at your hands, but not today. Do not blame me for misplacing your handler. After all, where were you when she was taken?" Faith screamed and lunged forward. Buffy caught her by the back of the shirt and dragged her back. Hampton looked at them with even more malevolence in his face. "I will not forget this affront." He disappeared back into the gloom.  
  
Faith whirled to face Buffy. "Come on. We've got to go in and get her."  
  
Buffy shook her head very slowly, never taking her eyes from Faith's. "She's not in there. You heard him."  
  
"You're believing him? He's lying."  
  
"Faith, you can say a lot of things about him, but scared of us isn't one of them." Buffy articulated very clearly. "If Lindsay was bait in a trap, why weren't they expecting us? She's not here."  
  
Faith shook her head. "Then Trick's got her. We've gotta go after him."  
  
"No. Not tonight. It'll be dark before long." Buffy nodded toward the house. "I don't think it's a good idea to be out tonight, not with them pissed at us."  
  
Faith pulled away. "Then I'll go alone."  
  
Giles stepped up beside Buffy. "And where will you go? I understand that you want to rush out and save her, but we must have more information. If Lindsay is bait, as Buffy said, then Trick will keep her alive to draw us to him."  
  
"What if he doesn't?" Tears ran down Faith's face.  
  
Giles took a deep breath. "Then I expect she's dead already and it will do no good. If we are to help Lindsay, we must prepare."  
  
"Come on." Buffy gently took Faith's arm. "You're coming home with me. Giles will go into research mode and--"  
  
"And I'll help." Willow's voice was firm.  
  
Faith looked at Buffy, her eyes pleading with the blond Slayer. "I just... I can't lose her. I just can't."  
  
Buffy wrapped her arms around the other girl. "We won't."  
  
***  
  
The grating of the door as it opened stirred Lindsay out of her haze. Mr. Trick filled her skewed perspective as he bent down in front of her. "Hey, how's it goin'?" he asked. He looked at her for a moment, then signaled someone with him. Lindsay heard a zipping sound as the duct tape around her left arm was sliced. Trick reached out of her field of vision; his hand returned holding a glass.  
  
"Here," he said. "Water."  
  
Lindsay fumbled for the glass, her left hand heavy and clumsy. Trick held it until she had a firm grip on it. She took a few sips and looked at him.  
  
"This is a little out of character, don't you think?" Her voice was raspy and painful.  
  
Trick frowned. "What, you think this is personal? It's not." He shrugged. "Not that I feel remorse or anything, it's not like that."  
  
Lindsay coughed. "You're not enjoying this?"  
  
Trick made a who-cares face. "I wouldn't say that either. It's just not about you." He stood up. Lindsay twisted her face up to see him slipping on a yellow paper smock. "Now," he said, "since that hand's already free..." 


	4. chapter 4

"We rumbled this afternoon. I missed you." Willow held the phone between chin and shoulder as she tapped away at the keyboard.  
  
"Anybody hurt?" Oz asked.  
  
Willow shook her head, causing the phone to squirt from its precarious niche and bounce off her thigh on the way to the floor. She retrieved it and proceeded to tell Oz what he had missed.  
  
"Wow," he said. "Sounds tough. Should I come over?"  
  
"No. Giles kept repeating that. Stay home. Real 'Night of the Hunter' stuff."   
  
There was a long pause then Oz said, "Sometimes Giles can remind you of Lillian Gish."  
  
Willow shifted the phone to her other ear. "So what did you do while the rest of us pursued fangy evil?"  
  
"Not much. Met a guy. Had a talk." Willow could read Oz's tone. It said 'This is all you'll get from me. Don't ask any more.'  
  
***  
  
Xander stretched out on his bed. "Well, sure it sucks. I mean, if the choices for tonight's activities are being cooped up here in my bedroom or spending time with you, I know who gets my vote."  
  
Cordelia's scowl could be heard over the phone line. "And this had to happen when I was planning a special night."  
  
"Special?" Xander elbow-walked into a reclining position against the headboard. "In what way?"  
  
"Well, I thought that instead of going to the Bronze we might go someplace nice for dinner."  
  
"I assume that 'someplace nice' disqualifies all restaurants with a mascot."  
  
"Yes." Cordelia sighed. "I was planning on Domenico's."  
  
"D-Domenico's?" Xander pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a second. "That is someplace nice."  
  
Cordelia's voice dropped a couple of notes. "I just... I thought it would be a nice change from just hanging out. That was before everything got all Stalag 17."  
  
Xander swallowed. "Thanks for the thought. But Giles is probably right."  
  
They talked for some time after that, then played the nightly 'you-hang-up-first' game. Xander placed the phone in its cradle and lay back, his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.  
  
Domenico's was nice-nice enough that Cordelia would have had to pay the tab. Xander let his eyes roam across the ceiling, noticing familiar details without really seeing them. He'd lied to Buffy this morning; well, half-lied. He was trying to be the supportive boyfriend, and a part of him did find it enjoyable, but another part of him was feeling the strain.  
  
Cordelia was much more complicated than he'd ever imagined. Before the impetuous beginning of their relationship, he'd thought he knew all about her. She fit rather neatly into a little square box in his psyche-Cordelia Chase, rich snob who looked down on all she surveyed. After dating for almost ten months, he wasn't sure he knew anything about her at all.  
  
The sex thing, for example. Finding out that Cordelia was a virgin was pretty shocking even if that virginity seemed to be pretty technical in nature. He'd tried to respect that and suck it up, but she was offering no explanations to make that easier to do. After her abduction the thought of anything more than a good-night kiss seemed uncomfortably close to sexual assault. And yet he couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to be the guy who deflowered Cordelia Chase. Perfect recipe for psychosexual confusion.  
  
There was also the little matter of her family. Cordelia seemed determined to keep them behind a high wall and a deep ditch. She'd never even suggested that he come to her house or meet her parents. He was guilty of this as well, but he knew the reason for that-he was deeply ashamed of his family. Working from this frame of reference had led him to one conclusion. Cordelia was ashamed of him. He was fine for hanging out with at the Bronze, but he couldn't be seen on the Chase's side of town. But then why had she been planning dinner at Domenico's?   
  
"Probably has dim lighting," Xander muttered to the uncaring ceiling.  
  
***  
  
"Where's Faith?" Willow asked as she sidled up beside Buffy.  
  
The Slayer nearly jumped out of her skin. "Jeez, are you trying to scare me to death? Let me get jump-started." She thumped her fist on her chest. "There. Faith is with my mom."  
  
Willow's mouth turned down. "She's at the gallery?"  
  
"Nooooo, my mom took the day off."  
  
Willow nodded. "So, how grim was it?"  
  
Buffy pointed at her own face. "See these bags under my eyes? They're not packed for a trip to Maui. Mom finally got her calmed down about three, so we got a couple hours sleep."  
  
"And you left her with your mom?"  
  
Buffy shrugged. "The most amazing thing is, my mom's good with her. It's like another side of Joyce Summers." She yawned. "Doesn't help me much, though."  
  
"Well, I hate to pile on like this, but Giles wants to see you in the library."  
  
Buffy looked up. "Of course. That would be the next stop on the Morning of Torture tour."   
  
***  
  
Giles held a Polaroid. Buffy took it from him. It was a picture of a battered-looking Lindsay holding a newspaper in her bandaged hands. Buffy looked at her Watcher.  
  
"It's a copy of today's news," he said.   
  
"So she's alive." Buffy handed the photo back to him.  
  
"As of this morning," he said.  
  
"Both hands are bandaged now."  
  
Giles gave a small nod. "You noticed that, did you?" His face grew grim and hard. "I now have a matching set of grisly souvenirs."  
  
Buffy digested this new information. "How about we don't tell Faith about that, okay?"  
  
Giles looked at the photograph. "My thoughts exactly."  
  
The Slayer looked at her Watcher. "What are we going to do?"  
  
Giles pursed his lips. "If we followed standard Council protocol, we would do nothing."  
  
"What?" Buffy's mouth dropped open.  
  
"When I took my oath as a Watcher, I knew quite clearly that I might be in grave danger. It was also made very plain to me that my life might be forfeit... an acceptable casualty, if you will. Lindsay took the same oath."  
  
"Giles, we are not going to let Lindsay sit there while Trick cuts off fingers until he gets bored and kills her. I didn't do that when Angel had you and no way will I even try and get Faith to agree to it." Buffy's jaw was set.  
  
Giles tapped the Polaroid against his left palm. "If you had," he said, "I would have understood."  
  
Buffy gaped at him. "Excuse me? When did this turn into creepy masochist theater?"  
  
"I'm trying to make a point. Lindsay is not a civilian any more than I am. Danger is part of what we do just as much as it is for you." Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his face. "What would you have done if Angel had killed me?"  
  
"Giles, that is so Sylvia Plath, I can't even begin."  
  
Giles looked stern, almost angry. "Will you answer my question?"  
  
Buffy scowled at him. "It would have killed me."  
  
"Metaphorically."  
  
"Yes, metaphorically. You know how important you are to me. Is this really the time to be fishing for weird-ass compliments?"  
  
Giles jabbed at the tabletop with a forefinger. "But you would have gone on. Your life would have continued."  
  
The Slayer rolled her eyes. "Yes, as hard as it would have been, I would have found a way to go on, but it would never have been the same," she said in a singsong voice. "Happy now?"  
  
"Buffy, there is a very real possibility that Lindsay will die. What will become of Faith if that happens? You saw her yesterday afternoon. You've seen her reaction to any threat to Lindsay. What if the worst happens?"  
  
Buffy swallowed, then folded her arms and squared her shoulders. "We'll make sure it doesn't."  
  
***  
  
Oz stopped just inside the cafeteria doors and scanned the room. Devon sat at a table about midway down the wall on the left side. Oz threaded his way through the early-lunch diners and sat down. "Hey," he said.  
  
"Hey yourself," Devon said, taking a drink from his Coke. "Guess you talked to Trey yesterday."  
  
"Yeah, and I, uh, I..." Oz took a deep breath. This was harder than he'd expected. "I acted like a jerk."  
  
Devon shot a look out of the corner of his eye. Oz braced himself for a major busting of chops. Devon held the look for another beat, then waved his hand. "Don't sweat it. It's not like you threatened to leave the band or anything." He grinned at Oz. "Hey, if you're interested, there's a gig to be had at the U. Saturday night. Frat party needs primo entertainment on the quick."  
  
Oz nodded. "I'm there." He stood up. "Hey, Devon... Thanks for not, you know."  
  
Devon took another drink. "I look at it this way. You got pissed because you care about Dingoes and you thought we were cutting you out. Since I never planned to do that, then that means I didn't communicate well, so it's part my fault." He wiped his hands, tossed the napkin onto his tray, and stood up. "This band's too good to ruin it. You're the right hand, always have been. I wouldn't even keep it going without you."  
  
Oz nodded, then ducked his head and made for the door.  
  
***  
  
Willow used great care in placing the sheets of paper on the table. "There," she said. "It's a big place."  
  
"Willow, how did you get a copy of the blueprints for CRT?" Buffy looked over the plans carefully, her eyes never leaving them.  
  
"Technically, those aren't blueprints; they're just floor plans. Anybody can get them."  
  
"Anybody?" Buffy kept looking at the plans but her eyebrows arched.  
  
"Yeahhhhhhh." Willow developed a sudden interest in a spot on the wall. "Anyone who can hack their security password."  
  
"Good Lord." Giles rubbed his forehead. "I miss the days when fighting evil didn't involve breaking the law ourselves."  
  
"What days were those?" Buffy leaned over the plans.  
  
"When you faced danger with a stout stick and a stouter heart and charged straight ahead."  
  
Buffy looked at him, her face incredulous. "What year were you born? 1730?"  
  
Giles shrugged. "Just a wish, I guess."  
  
"It won't be easy to figure out where Lindsay is," Willow said. "It's a big place, like three stories and lots of twisty hallways, and that's just the part I saw when I was there during the event we don't speak of."  
  
"Well, we have to do something." Buffy turned and rested her butt against the edge of the table. "Faith's on edge. She'll head out there by herself if we don't have a plan."  
  
"If we could just discern Trick's motive we might know where to begin." Giles stared at the papers on the table.  
  
"Does 'why' matter?" Willow's face was stern. "Who cares why he's doing it? You know the 'what'-he's trying to lure you into a trap. Why the angst and analysis?" She pointed at the plans. "We need to look for places that are a long way from the exits, that might be easy to get into but hard to get out of. There are fire exits at the end of every hallway, so he's probably not holding her in any of the rooms close to those. That cuts the search area down a lot. Ground floor's probably out too..."  
  
***  
  
They gathered in the parking lot, the six of them clustered around Oz's van and Giles' Citroen. Cordelia had expressly declared her Sebring off-limits for this adventure.  
  
"It will be dark by the time we get there," she said. "Isn't that bad? You know, the dark, when the undead walk, their power is greatest, that whole thing?"  
  
"Not really," Buffy said. "Once we get inside, it won't matter if it's day or night, and this way some of them might be out prowling."  
  
Giles checked a flashlight. "In any case, we couldn't get there earlier." Satisfied that the batteries were strong he tossed the light into his car. The parking lights of a vehicle pierced the dusk as it turned into the school.  
  
"That's Mom," Buffy said. "And Faith."  
  
Faith was out of the Jeep before Joyce could bring it to a complete stop. Buffy reached through the window and took her mother's hand. "Go home and stay there, Mom. Promise me?"  
  
Joyce nodded, her eyes wet and shiny. "Be careful, okay?" The patent absurdity of her mother's suggestion almost caused the Slayer to laugh out loud. Instead she smiled and patted her parent's hand.  
  
"I will, Mom. Very careful." She squeezed her mom's fingers and stepped back. As the Jeep pulled away she turned to the group. Faith looked very pale; her fingernails were jagged, gnawed-off stubs.  
  
"Let's go," Giles said. They got into the cars in silence. Giles' Citroen creaked out of the parking lot with Oz's van following. As they turned onto the street a figure hurried away from one of the school windows.  
  
***  
  
It was full dark by the time the vehicles pulled over to the side of the road. Giles pulled two duffel bags out of his trunk. "We walk from here," he announced.  
  
"What? It's still two miles." Cordelia pointed back the way they had come. "That sign right there says two miles."  
  
"Two miles by road." Giles pointed at the woods beyond the cars. "It's a little under a mile across country."  
  
"Oh, that's so much better. Let's see-two miles on pavement or a mile through the woods in the dark. What's the third choice?" Cordelia was definitely miffed.  
  
"The third choice is I stuff your mouth with moss," Faith snarled. "Shut your piehole."  
  
"Wow, riding in close quarters sure can make a body testy," Xander said.  
  
"You won't have to walk that far," Giles said. "It's a mile from this spot to the fence around CRT. The three of you will be staying in the woods. Buffy, Faith and I will actually enter the facility." He handed a duffel to Xander and hefted one himself. "Shall we go?"  
  
***  
  
The trees ended abruptly and open ground stretched before them-one hundred and fifty yard of it. The terrain fell away in a shallow slope, then curved up. The one-time computer firm's HQ sat on top of the rise so that they looked at it across the hollow. The chain-link fence and the security lights that illuminated it gave the entire place a vague, sinister air, like a prison or a military base. The bright halogen glow of the security lights only penetrated fifty or so feet. The rest of the intervening distance was blanketed in night. Giles placed his duffel bag on the ground and pulled out what looked like bolt cutters. Willow rummaged in the other bag for her supplies. These were various herbs, a wooden bowl, and a candle. The herbs went into the bowl to be crushed as Cordelia, Oz, and Xander positioned themselves around Willow. She shielded the candle with her body as she lit it and placed it in the bowl. The Slayers and the Watcher moved to the edge of the woods as Willow began the spell. Cordelia felt a clammy breeze across her face; icy fingers skittered up Xander's spine. Willow completed the incantation, passed her hand over the candle and blew it out. She nodded and Buffy moved out of the trees and started across the open ground.  
  
The Scoobies held their ground in the trees as their friends disappeared into the gloom. "So," Xander whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "does this make them invisible?"  
  
Willow continued to stare into the dark. "No. It's really more of a small glammer. It just makes them... insignificant. You know, the way Cordelia makes everyone feel."  
  
"Hey," the cheerleader hissed. "I'm standing out here in the cold like everybody else."  
  
"Sorry," Willow said. "The spell makes it hard to see them, but it can't conceal them. If someone was to stop and look right at them, they'd be visible." With a click and a thump, a high-powered searchlight on the fence snapped on. It was followed quickly by two others. Buffy, Faith and Giles were pinned in the harsh glare.  
  
"Or you could do that," Willow said.  
  
***  
  
When the first light blazed over them Buffy broke to her left, but two more piercing beams found them. The Slayer stopped, shielding her eyes with an upraised arm. A fourth spotlight stabbed through the dark, but this one wasn't directed at them. It cast a white oval on the ground to their right, drawing attention to itself. Buffy felt her eyes turn that way. The light moved across the ground until it found what it was searching for, then it stopped.  
  
Two metal poles were driven into the ground. Buffy's heart surged into her throat. Lindsay hung there, suspended by cables attached to manacles on her wrists. Buffy couldn't breathe; she threw her arm out across Faith, feeling the other girl tremble beneath her touch.  
  
Lindsay wasn't alone. A vampire stood by each pole. Buffy recognized one of them-Othniel Hampton. The other was unfamiliar, but he was big. The third one stood just in front of this wrenching tableau. He wore an immaculate overcoat and stood lightly, his hands clasped in front of him.  
  
Buffy felt Faith quiver. "Don't rush him," the blond Slayer whispered but she knew that she might as well have said "Build a skyscraper out of jelly beans."  
  
***  
  
The Scoobies didn't breathe. Actually, they did breathe, but the respirations were so shallow and fast as to appear nonexistent.  
  
"Oh my God," Cordelia said. "What's Buffy doing?"  
  
***  
  
Faith took two steps toward Trick and Buffy grabbed her. Faith spun and caught a glimpse of Buffy's wide, frightened eyes just before a fist slammed into her jaw. Faith dropped, rolled, and came up in a fighting stance. Buffy was now between her and Lindsay.  
  
***  
  
Buffy felt as though an iron cap had been slammed onto her head and was being tightened with steel screws.  
  
Stop it, her mind screamed at her body. What are you doing? Stop it now! But her body wasn't listening.  
  
***  
  
Willow's head was almost a blur as it shook back and forth. "Something's wrong," she moaned.  
  
"Gee," Cordelia said. "You think?"  
  
***  
  
Mr. Trick had not moved, but his eyes narrowed and sweat began to bead on his high forehead. A dull, burning pain began to grow behind his right ear.  
  
***  
  
Every punch Faith threw, Buffy blocked; every kick the dark Slayer launched was parried. It was a grim and tragic mirror of their training sessions-two foes so evenly matched that neither could gain advantage. Faith feinted left and threw herself right, trying to dodge around Buffy. The blond Slayer responded with catlike quickness and wrapped Faith in a bear hug. Faith lunged in an attempt to bull past Buffy but could not.  
  
The purpose of the other two vampires now became apparent. The cables ran from Lindsay's wrists through ratcheted pulleys suspended from the poles. The end of one cable rested in the hand of the Reverend Othniel Hampton, the other cable held by Booker, Trick's lieutenant. They began to pull, taking up the slack. Then they braced themselves and hauled. Lindsay's mouth opened and she screamed. Her shoulders dislocated, pivoting in an unnatural and sickening way. Then the skin began to stretch. Human skin is amazingly elastic. Lindsay's shoulder joints elongated to an absurd shape before the skin tore. For an instant a knob of bone shone blue white at each severed joint before gouts of arterial blood obliterated it. Booker staggered back, a shredded arm flopping at the end of the cable. Lindsay collapsed to her knees. Her eyes locked on Faith's for a heartbeat, then she pitched face first onto the ground. Faith froze, her eyes wide, then she threw back her head and howled. Buffy felt the iron band around her head loosen.  
  
***  
  
Trick's legs felt watery as he turned away. Now the willpower was shifted. He poured it into the act of staying upright and steady. Booker approached him and started to hold out a hand. Trick simply gave him a venomous look. The hand was withdrawn.  
  
***  
  
Xander started to charge out of the woods. "Come on," he said. "We've got to get down there in case there's an attack."  
  
Oz shook his head. "I don't there's going to be an attack. I think we've seen it."  
  
***  
  
Buffy felt her mouth fill with bile. Giles and Faith rushed past her. Lindsay's body lay in the wet green grass; her arms dangled from the posts, casting strange shadows in the brilliance of the searchlights. Buffy collapsed to her knees and vomited.  
  
***  
  
Faith dropped to the ground beside Lindsay, her knees squishing on the bloody turf. She turned her Watcher over as gently as she could. Heedless of the blood she cradled Lindsay in her lap, sobbing. The tears fell on Lindsay's upturned face, washing away the mud and gore.  
  
Giles pulled her up. "Faith," he said. "Go. Get back. Let me take care of this." He pushed her away. Faith stumbled a few steps. She looked up and saw Buffy approaching on unsteady legs. The blond Slayer's face was ashen. Faith's fist curled into a ball.  
  
***  
  
Buffy never saw the punch coming, or at least made no attempt to block or avoid it. The force of it spun her halfway around. She was unconscious when she hit the ground.  
  
***  
  
"Come on." Oz grabbed Xander by the arm. "I think they need us." As they left the shelter of the trees the spotlights shut off with a thud. They fumbled down the hill in the dark. Willow and Cordelia stayed in the woods, Willow weeping, Cordelia standing in stunned silence with unfelt tears running down her face.  
  
***  
  
End of chapter 4 of "The Bad Touch." 


	5. chapter 5

Trick turned off the water and leaned his forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall. He remained there for some minutes before slowly stepping out of the stall. He dressed in a pair of loose black silk pajama pants and black espadrilles, then stretched out on his bed.  
  
"So how was it?" Delilah asked.  
  
Trick grinned. "Baby, it was the best. Turning a Slayer into my own private Pinocchio? That's worth about any amount of pain."  
  
She rubbed his shoulders. "You seem pretty tired."  
  
"That's because I am pretty tired. I'm tired like triathlon tired."  
  
Delilah leaned down and whispered in his ear. "Is there anything I can do?"  
  
He rolled over onto his back. "Why don't you leave me alone. I'll see you tomorrow." He was asleep before she closed the door.  
  
***  
  
Buffy stumbled down the stairs, her hair a disheveled mess and her pajamas twisted like a politician's integrity. She dropped into a chair at the table and lowered her head onto her folded arms.  
  
Joyce looked up from the stove. "Hey there. I'm making eggs." She was determined to download June Cleaver.  
  
"Sorry, mom. Not in the mood for chicken fetus," Buffy groaned from underneath her hair. Joyce put down her spatula, turned down the heat under the eggs and sat down at the table.  
  
"Honey, I know this is an awful, terrible time, but it's not your fault."  
  
Buffy's head came up. "But that's where you're wrong. I held Faith while they killed the person she loved more than anyone in the world. That translates into blame."  
  
Joyce picked at the place mat in front of her. "Mr. Giles said that something happened, that you weren't in control. I don't see how you can hold yourself responsible for that." She took a deep breath. "Willow's coming over. She said she'd walk you to school."  
  
The Slayer shook her head. "No. Not happening. I cannot go to school."  
  
"Buffy, you've missed three days. The only time you've left the house is to try and find Faith. I know this is a horrible, horrible time, but the world will not stop." Joyce's voice was strong but her eyes were bright with tears. "You can't make life stop. This seems like an unbearable burden now, but you have friends who will help." She reached out and took her daughter's hand. "And you have me."  
  
"That's a nice speech. Are you still going to make me go to school?"  
  
Joyce nodded. "Oh yes." She stood. "Now, do you want some breakfast? Because Willow's going to be here in about fifteen minutes."  
  
***  
  
Buffy was grateful that Willow didn't try to fill the silence with banter. They simply walked. Buffy concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other while Willow tried to not shoot too many glances out of the corner of her eye.  
  
They merged with the stream of students approaching Sunnydale High. Surrounded by laughing, shouting kids, Buffy felt a sudden urge to start punching people. How could they be so happy? Didn't they know someone had died a sad and hateful death? The answer, of course, was that they did not know. Lindsay's demise was a secret burden shared by only a handful of people.  
  
Xander and Cordelia waited for them at the top of the stairs. Xander wore garish plaid pants and a powder-blue western-cut shirt with navy-blue yoke and cuffs. Cordelia was dressed in a short-sleeved gold mock T and leopard-print mini.  
  
"Hey, Buff," Xander said. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Dehydrated," Buffy mumbled.  
  
"I gotta go," Willow said. "Tutoring session." She touched Buffy's arm. "See you at lunch." The redhead hustled off down the hall.  
  
Buffy regarded Xander and Cordelia. "So you guys are the honor guard, huh?"  
  
The couple exchanged glances and Xander shuffled his feet. "Yeah, we're sort of the last detail. You know, make sure you get to class and stuff."  
  
"Stuff like running away?" Buffy lifted her chin and stared him in the eye.  
  
"Pretty much exactly that," Cordelia said. "After all, you did flake the last time someone died a grisly supernatural death you couldn't prevent."  
  
Xander winced but Buffy simply stared into Cordelia's bored gaze. "Thanks for laying it all on the table, Cordelia. Even if I was planning on running away, I'd stay now just to spite you."  
  
"Hey." Xander broke in. "How's Faith doing?"  
  
"Don't know," Buffy said. "She hasn't been at what passes for her home."  
  
Cordelia examined her nails. "Well, she punched your lights out and took off. Maybe she ran away."  
  
"You have a plan?" Xander must have noticed how Buffy's hands curled into fists.  
  
Buffy gave Cordelia a last penetrating glare then turned to him. "Only in the most basic sense. It goes 'get through the day, meet with Giles, then check the motel again.' Not exactly worthy of Sherlock Holmes."  
  
Xander shrugged. "I don't know, I think it has a certain directness and simplicity that work. You know, minimalist-wise. Do I babble?"  
  
"Indeed you do." Cordelia turned to Buffy. "Let's go. Time's wasting."  
  
"She means well. I think," Xander muttered as they walked down the hall. Buffy felt a perverse comfort. If Cordelia could be rude, then maybe, perhaps, someday, life might return to normal.  
  
***  
  
Willow checked the clock again and tried to remain calm. Tyler Pittman was already ten minutes late. She took out a notebook and opened it. Might as well make the best of the time and review Calculus II.  
  
The hinges on the door squeaked. She looked up and there he was, all gangly limbs and sullen expression. Willow tried to make her face an annoyance-free zone as he slouched into a chair. "You're late," she said, trying to keep her voice mild.  
  
"Flunk me," he said. "That'll teach me a lesson."  
  
"Actually," she said, "I thought we'd just start with Civics and Government." She tugged a thin book from the stack in front of her. The collection tottered and she reached out to keep it from falling.  
  
"Hey, what's that?" Tyler yanked on the corner of a book sticking out of Willow's backpack.  
  
"That's my personal stuff." Willow reached for his wrist and without her steadying grip the textbooks came sliding down across the table. She tried to stem the tide and by the time her attention was once again focused on him, Tyler had pulled the book out and was leafing through it. "Hey," Willow said, her face flushed. "What are you doing? Don't you have any respect?"  
  
Tyler held up the book and flapped it back and forth. "The Kabbalah? Interesting. Especially when I see that there's another book in there on spellcraft. One of these things is not like the other." His heavy twang made 'like' sound like 'lahk.'  
  
"Well, that's my business," Willow snapped as she reached for the book. Tyler pulled it away, holding it just out of reach.  
  
"Come on," he said. "All this time spent tryin' to engage my interest and now that it's engaged, you wanna pull it back."  
  
"First of all, you need to get your schoolwork done, not take my personal things." Willow glared at him. "And second of all, that sentence was grammatically atrocious."  
  
He shrugged. "Still don't tell me why you're readin' these books."  
  
"Maybe I'm doing a report."  
  
He shook his head. "Uh-uh. If you was, you'd have two books on the Kabbalah or two on spells, not one on each. You're trying to use these."  
  
Willow tried to act innocent and offended. "What are you talking about?"  
  
A sly grin creased his face. "Yeah, that's it. You're such a little control freak anyway, I bet the idea of big bad magic really turns you on, don't it?"  
  
Willow's eyes narrowed. "Who are you calling a control freak?"  
  
"You. Look at yourself. This whole tutoring thing's turned into a big contest of wills. You're convinced you can make me do well in school in spite of myself. What's more about control than that?"  
  
"It's my business why I've got those books."  
  
Tyler shrugged. "If you tell me what you're after, I might be able to help."  
  
Willow pulled back. "Help with what? Are you saying you believe in this stuff?"  
  
"This stuff?" Tyler waved at the books. "No, but not for the reason you think," he hastened to add when he saw the sparks in Willow's eyes.  
  
"What reason, then?"  
  
"Tell me why you've got the books."  
  
Willow's lips almost disappeared as she tried to stare a hole through him. "I have a... condition, and I think there might be some help in those books."  
  
Tyler shook his head. "You're not thinking big enough. Those books are like swimming lessons, which are fine, unless you're going out into the ocean. Then you've got to surf."  
  
Willow cocked her head. "That made no sense."  
  
"That's what I meant when I said I don't believe in them. I believe in what's behind them. You go with those books and you're going to make the mistake of believing that you can control the other world, but you can't. It's too big. You've got to learn to go with it."  
  
Willow frowned. She hated herself for it, but she was intrigued. "And what you're talking about is different how?"  
  
Tyler leaned forward. He was more alive than Willow had ever seen him. "I can show you how to walk in their world."  
  
***  
  
Buffy's feet dragged as she approached the library. 'Dread' was not a strong enough word to summarize her feelings. The day had been awful. She couldn't even muster the pretense of interest in her classes and most of the teachers seemed to home in on her stupor like bees to a field of marigolds, so now she felt stupid in addition to everything else. Now Giles wanted to debrief her.  
  
The library doors clicked as she pushed them open. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, the golden rays guiding the eye to the table in the middle of the room. Giles sat at that table, his attention focused on the books in front of him. He looked up at the sound of her approach. Buffy slid into the chair across from him, the tension stretched like blown glass, hot and fragile. Giles closed the books and rested his clasped hands on the table.  
  
"How was your day?" he asked. The complete banality of his question took the Slayer off-guard. She felt the air grow breathable again.  
  
"How was my day? It was, hmm, let's see... Oh yeah, the word is 'sucked'."  
  
Giles nodded and fiddled with his tie. "I'm sorry I couldn't do this sooner, but I've been busy with... other arrangements." Buffy winced. "Now," he continued, "I'm waiting for a reply from the Council, but I believe that I know what happened."  
  
"It had something to do with this, didn't it?" Buffy tapped the Band-Aid on her neck. The bite wounds were almost completely healed, but she could feel their presence.  
  
Giles nodded. "Yes. I discovered a reference in Reuchlin to 'der griff des vampire'."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"'The grip of the vampire.' It's ability of certain vampires to control their victims by means of a psychic link established during feeding."  
  
"Whoa." Buffy stared at him, her mouth open. "You never thought to tell me about this little possibility?"  
  
Giles took a deep breath. "There are many items of popular vampire lore that are patently false. For instance, the belief that a vampire must sleep in a coffin containing the soil of its home. It's a load of bollocks; they can sleep anywhere they like. This power that Trick exercised fell into the same category-a creative addition grafted on by storytellers to further frighten their audience. At least, that's what we believed. In fact, the Reuchlin isn't a description, it's only a passing reference, and a joking one at that. It did point me in the right direction, however. It's not as though sources were thick on the ground. This power hasn't been manifested in over twelve hundred years."  
  
Buffy fell back in her chair. "Trick did something that hasn't been done in twelve centuries?"  
  
Giles nodded. "When you fought the Master for the last time, what did he do?"  
  
Buffy stared at her Watcher. "He raised his hand and pointed at me and... I froze."  
  
"Exactly. He could hold you in one spot, but he could not make you move."  
  
Buffy frowned. "But even that trick didn't work up on the roof. Shouldn't he have been even more powerful? After all, he bit me too."  
  
Giles nodded and pursed his lips. "Well, that's because his power... that is the connection between you... You died. That rendered the bite powerless, although I daresay that stasis would still have been the best he could achieve."  
  
"Okay." Buffy waved a hand. "What does this mean now?"  
  
Giles shrugged. "Well, obviously you can't face Trick directly. The results could be disastrous. The research arm of the Council will try and determine the exact nature and limits of Trick's ability, as well as any possible remedies."  
  
A moment passed in silence, then Buffy said, "Giles, what happened to... the body?"  
  
The librarian looked down at the table. "The Watchers Council looks after its own."  
  
Buffy digested that, then stood up. "I've got to go."  
  
Giles' brow furrowed. "Where are you going?"  
  
"To try and find Faith."  
  
The Watcher frowned. "I'll come with you." He started to get up.  
  
"No." Buffy held out an emphatic hand. "I have to do this by myself." A bitter smile wreathed her face. "But you might stay close to the phone tonight. I may need you later."  
  
***  
  
Buffy trudged across the cracked concrete in front of the ValleyView in a listless funk. She'd come here for three days and Faith was nowhere in evidence. She was probably gone; it was a response Buffy understood.  
  
She stopped in front of the door to #6. She raised her hand, brought it down, and nearly tumbled to her knees when the door was jerked open before her knuckles could make contact. The Slayer caught herself and straightened up to stare into Faith's eyes.  
  
Faith's normally pale skin was all but translucent. Her eyes were dry and shiny, like someone with a high fever. Dark smudges resided underneath. Her dark hair hung lank and unwashed. She stared at Buffy, and if looks could kill the blond Slayer would have been laid out with a lily between her crossed palms.  
  
"Faith," Buffy croaked. "I... uh, was worried about you." Faith said nothing, just stepped back into the dim, musty room. Buffy entered like she was walking on eggshells. Faith stood in the middle of the room, between the sagging twin beds. Buffy swallowed hard, trying to clear the goose egg that had suddenly appeared in her esophagus.  
  
"Faith, I'm... I'm so sorry," she began.  
  
"Well, that means a whole hell of a lot." Faith's voice was raspy. "You come to try and clear your conscience?"  
  
Buffy looked down at the floor then back up at the other girl. "No. I came to tell you how sorry I am."  
  
"Sorry? Sorry?" Faith bristled. "You kept me from saving the only person who gave a rat's ass about me, and you're sorry?"  
  
"Faith, what happened wasn't me, it--"   
  
"Sure as hell looked like you."  
  
"It was Trick. He worked some sort of mojo on me. Giles can explain it."  
  
"I bet he can." Faith's words dripped scorn. "I bet he has some great explanation that makes it all not your fault. Am I right?"  
  
Buffy changed her tack. "What are you going to do now?"  
  
"I'm going to kill them. Not because I'm the Slayer. For Lindsay. " Faith's voice was hard. "And I'll kill anyone who's between them and me. You might remember that."  
  
"Where will you live?"  
  
Faith spread her arms wide. "Hey, the old ValleyView's paid for. All I need's a place to crash anyway."  
  
"Don't stay here." Buffy extended her hand. "Come home with me. Stay with us."  
  
"Why? So I can see your face every day and remember what you did? No way."  
  
"Faith, it's not healthy for you to stay here."  
  
"I don't wanna be healthy. I want to remember Lindsay." Faith's face twisted and tears began to seep from her eyes. "I don't even know where she'll be buried. The only person who ever cared about me and I can't even put flowers on her grave."  
  
"Don't say that." Buffy stepped forward. "I care about you. Giles cares about you. Willow and Xander, and my mom, they all--"  
  
"I bet they've all been telling you how it's not your fault, haven't they?" Faith shook her head. "You'll always have them to fall back on, just like now. I've got nothing, nobody." She sank onto the bed, her head cradled in her hands. "Lindsay... For a while, just a little while, I knew what it felt like to be special to somebody." A racking sob tore through her slender frame. Buffy reached out and touched her shoulder.  
  
Faith came off the bed like a rocket. Buffy stepped back, her hands rising in an involuntary response. Faith's breath came in great gulps and pants. "I think you should go," she said. "Get the fuck out of my sight."  
  
Buffy stumbled out the door. She turned to make one last-ditch effort to persuade the other girl. For a split-second Faith stood framed in the doorway. The door was only a cheap, splintered hollow-core wood veneer. No way should it have sounded like the door of Hell's own dungeon closing when Faith slammed it in Buffy's face. The blond Slayer turned, her eyes burning, and disappeared into the deepening gloom.  
  
***  
  
She walked for a long time.  
  
The sidewalk under her feet seemed very familiar. Her heart sank. She could taste ashes as she raised her head. She was here again; she always ended up here. Her feet turned into the driveway of their own volition. The mansion loomed over her, its dark bulk threatening to topple over and crush her.  
  
The dim interior was cool; she felt a chill pass through her. The house was quiet. The sound of her footsteps didn't echo but seemed to be swallowed by the silence. They must have been loud enough to reach his ears because he materialized in front of her. His dark clothing blended into the surroundings, leaving his face and hands as pale shapes in the gloom. They faced each other like two wary fighters, each waiting for the other to throw the first punch. Angel shuffled his feet.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said.  
  
"There's a lot of that going around," she said.  
  
"I mean it."  
  
"Do you?" She suddenly felt exhausted. She wanted to lie down right there on the rough flagstones and go to sleep, possibly forever.  
  
Angel made an awkward gesture with his hands. "Is there... anything I can do?"  
  
"I'm not sure there's anything anyone can do." She leaned back against the wall. "How did this happen?" Her voice held a choked sob.  
  
"I tried to warn you."  
  
Buffy looked at him sharply. "Did you? Because I don't recall anything about 'Oh, by the way, Trick can make you dance like a puppet'."  
  
"I didn't know he could." He swallowed and looked at the walls as though he wanted to turn into a spider and scuttle away to a high, far corner. "I guess I thought it was a legend," he finally said. He shook his head and spoke almost as if to himself. "You hear... I'd heard stories about ancient vampires that could actually bend people to their will, but I thought they were myths. I was wrong."  
  
Buffy frowned. "You said ancient vampires. But Trick's not very old."  
  
"No, he's not. Do you realize how much concentration, what kind of focus it takes to do what he did? And in the short time he's had to learn it?" Angel rolled his head on his neck, trying to loosen a knotted muscle.  
  
"Do you know anything else about it?" It felt so morbid to ask these questions but at least it gave her a focus, put some picture in her head to replace the image of Lindsay collapsing in a gushing torrent of blood and death.  
  
Angel's face was a bleak mask. "That's all I know."  
  
Buffy stared at him, her expression grave. "No, it isn't. Angel, what are you hiding?"  
  
He stiffened. "Do you really think you can come in here and demand something of me?"  
  
Buffy started to snap out a reply and thought better of it. "No, I can't. But I know you, Angel. You're holding something back."  
  
"Don't I have that right? Maybe I don't want to be part of your little adventures."  
  
"Why?" Even as she spoke, Buffy wanted to retract her words. "Because you're afraid it will happen again? What is it, Angel? Do you fear me or hate me?"  
  
He took a step backward, like a man who had taken a heavy blow. "Neither," he said. "But Trick's not here by accident. There are... things here that shouldn't be."  
  
"What kind of things?" She leaned forward, searching his face.  
  
"Bad things. Even worse than you're used to. Things from... that place."  
  
The anguish on his face pierced her heart. She reached out, extending her hand toward him. "Angel, I--"  
  
"I won't go back there. I won't." He was shaking.  
  
Buffy frowned. "Angel, that won't happen."  
  
He shook his head violently. "You have no idea what it's like."  
  
"Then give me some idea."  
  
He stared at her. "Is that some schoolgirl challenge?" He grabbed the open collar of his wine-red velvet shirt and yanked. Buttons flew, chattering against the walls and floor. One hit Buffy on the chin, startling her. She blinked, then looked at the now-shirtless Angel. "Oh God..." she whispered.  
  
His torso seemed so familiar, the smooth ivory skin, the dense musculature. But that well-known body was overlaid with a ghastly web. The scars were even whiter than his flesh, razor-thin crosshatches across his chest and stomach, interrupted by the puckered welts of healed burns. She stepped forward as one in a trance. His eyes narrowed as she approached. When her hand touched his chest it felt like blue fire leaped between their skins. She lifted her eyes to meet his. He saw the sparkle of tears.  
  
"I did this to you?" she whispered.  
  
Angel's eyes went to a faraway place. "I can still smell it," he said. "You can't imagine that smell. The stink of burning fat... the gutters full of blood and tissue... the screams." He grabbed his head in both hands. "I hear the screams all the time. The moans."  
  
"Stop it, Angel. You're scaring me."  
  
A near-deranged laugh bubbled from his lips. "I'm scaring you? If they're coming for me..." His voice dies away.  
  
Buffy felt the ridges of the scars beneath her fingertips. His skin was cool to her touch. "Why do you think they're coming for you?"  
  
Angel grasped her wrist and pushed her hand away. "Didn't Willie tell you about Trick? He's a gun for hire, a salvage expert. I think I have a pretty good idea of what he might be here to salvage."  
  
She might not have heard him. Her eyes glazed over as they took in the sight of those scars, those permanent reminders of what he had gone through, a journal of torture written on his flesh. Her gaze settled on one scar, neither thin and precise nor ugly and welted. It was a simple flattened oval, perhaps two inches long, just below the ribs on his left side. Her hesitant fingers brushed against it. "God, how you must hate me," she whispered.  
  
"Hate you?" The bewilderment in his voice caused her to look up into his confused eyes. "I don't hate you." His eyes clouded and his voice became very far away. "It's... it's really complicated. Somehow I got vomited back here... and then I saw you... and it all gets so tangled up. I don't hate you, but I can't forget that you sent me there. I... When I was there, the only thing close to hope was what I felt when I thought of you." His hand reached out; his thumb brushed away a tear. "I know you didn't really have a choice."  
  
"Angel, I..." Words failed her. The edges of her vision grew blurry. His face floated in an ocean of blackness; his dark eyes seemed huge. She pushed herself up on tiptoe and kissed him. For the blink of an eye he did not react, then his arms closed around her. The kiss was long and somber, not the fumbling of two groping adolescents but the slaking of two souls thirsty for each other.  
  
Buffy broke the kiss and pushed away. She stared at him, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "That wasn't... I shouldn't have come here." She spun and raced out the door.  
  
"Wait," he said, but she was already gone. He made a move as if to follow, but his steps faltered halfway to the door. He stood there, silent, unmoving, a statue of pale marble in the moonlight. His fingers touched his lips. He could still feel her residual warmth. He stood there for a long time.  
  
***  
  
Trick pulled his legs out of the manhole cover and began to strip off the orange coveralls he wore. He kicked free of them and straightened his tie. For once he felt good about the no reflection issue; it kept him from seeing how badly that hazmat getup had wrinkled his suit.  
  
"You seem very concerned about your garments." The voice echoing from the deep shadow was probably meant to startle Trick. Too bad, nice try. He spent an extra second smoothing the line of his trouser leg before straightening.  
  
"Yeah," he said, "but this is Italian. I mean, you spent, what, thirteen-fifty, fourteen dollars on that outfit?"  
  
Othniel Hampton offered a flint-eyed stare in response. "You care greatly about the material things of this world."  
  
Trick shrugged. "Yeah, but you know... If you're gonna be stuck here for eternity you might as well know the difference between a good red wine and Mad Dog." He looked around, noting the cavernous space stretching away on all sides. "Man, nice place like this sitting here empty and you shack up in that crappy house. Why?"  
  
Hampton's upper lip curled. "Did you call me here to bait me?"  
  
Trick shook his head. "No, no I didn't. I'm sorry, brother. It is your dime." He ran his thumbs underneath his lapels, trying to smooth the silk. "Actually, I wanted to thank you for your help. Plan couldn't have succeeded without you, and I know it cost you."  
  
Hampton's face darkened. "My followers died for the sake of your plan. To allow the Slayer to leave our house was almost more than I could bear."  
  
"And that's why I'm grateful. I know it wasn't easy. That's why I wanted to make you an offer." Trick tugged at an earlobe.  
  
"Your plans are too complicated and costly. I think we will go our own way." Hampton crossed his arms.  
  
"Agreed. We've been temporary allies. Doesn't mean we need to be joined at the hip. But here's my concession to you. I'm only here to fulfill a contract. As a gesture of respect, I'm declaring Sunnydale off-limits to my crew. No partying. No late-night cruising for kills. I will send a small group out every other day to collect what we need for food. That will be our only presence."  
  
Hampton turned this over in his mind. Trick could almost see him searching the proposal for trapdoors. Finally the Reverend replied. "So that we may part as equals, I accept." He turned in swirl of his billowing coat and disappeared into the shadows. Trick waited for five minutes, then struggled into his orange jumpsuit, slipped his oxfords off his feet and stowed them in one of the suit's many huge pockets, then stepped into the heavy rubber boots and dropped down the manhole cover again.  
  
"That ignorant cracker," he said to Quisling. His minion wore an identical orange rubberized suit and boots. "Did you hear him? 'So that we may part as equals.' Just to let me know that he thinks this is payment for a debt. Serves him right."  
  
"I'm assuming that it was nothing of the sort," Quisling said, his silvery hair glinting above the garish orange outfit.  
  
"Are you kidding? Faith's out for blood, so to speak. She's going to stomp a hole in any demon that moves. Let her whale on Hampton's rednecks. Hell, they'll probably get off on it and everybody can have a big funeral pyre." Trick began to slog up the tunnel. "Dumbass probably won't even realize he's been played."  
  
***  
  
The first rays of the rising sun crept through the small opening between the heavy drapes and the stone window casement. Angel sat in the heavy chair and watched the pinstripes of light waver as the drapes rippled in the morning breeze.  
  
End of "The Bad Touch" 


End file.
